Good. [Her voice comes out a little rough in response, her nails scratching lightly as her fingers curl in surprise at the first touch of his mouth to her neck.
There's a protest swallowed up (don't touch them, they're ugly) because it'd be hypocritical of her to say such a thing. Her scars still feel fresh in her mind, the sensations slightly dulled, but still enough to send a shiver down her spine. They're ugly, she thinks, but he makes them feel less so. Unimportant. There's no hesitation in his touch and it makes her relax-- he doesn't care, and why should he? Why should she?
Her nails drags against his skin, Oona being careful to make it bite, but not necessarily hurt. She wants to sink into him, teeth and nail and bone and undo him from the inside out. To see him unravel under her hands (over her body), and carefully piece him together again. Perhaps it's morbid. Perhaps it's just the possessive, all-consuming love that caused the sirens of old to drag sailors to their deaths. If they couldn't have them, than no one could. A selfish love that consumed and made them forget their lovers couldn't breathe under water.
But Oona wouldn't go that far. She'd let him come up for air, eventually, even though she continues to try and drag him under now. She shifts her legs around him so he can fit between them, her knees nudging against his sides (it's more comfortable this way, a not-quite-lie she tells herself as if it isn't also about reminding him just what their positions are right now).]
no subject
There's a protest swallowed up (don't touch them, they're ugly) because it'd be hypocritical of her to say such a thing. Her scars still feel fresh in her mind, the sensations slightly dulled, but still enough to send a shiver down her spine. They're ugly, she thinks, but he makes them feel less so. Unimportant. There's no hesitation in his touch and it makes her relax-- he doesn't care, and why should he? Why should she?
Her nails drags against his skin, Oona being careful to make it bite, but not necessarily hurt. She wants to sink into him, teeth and nail and bone and undo him from the inside out. To see him unravel under her hands (over her body), and carefully piece him together again. Perhaps it's morbid. Perhaps it's just the possessive, all-consuming love that caused the sirens of old to drag sailors to their deaths. If they couldn't have them, than no one could. A selfish love that consumed and made them forget their lovers couldn't breathe under water.
But Oona wouldn't go that far. She'd let him come up for air, eventually, even though she continues to try and drag him under now. She shifts her legs around him so he can fit between them, her knees nudging against his sides (it's more comfortable this way, a not-quite-lie she tells herself as if it isn't also about reminding him just what their positions are right now).]